Acquainted With The Night
by WriterJC
Summary: A missing person's case turns into more than Peter and the gang at the 101st were expecting. KCC experiences a personal crisis.


Title: Acquainted With The Night

Author: WriterJC ([][1]

shadowmom @ writeme.com )

Characters: Peter Caine, Kwai Chang Caine, Frank Strenlich, Kermit Griffin, Lo Si, Marvin Katz, assorted guests.

Rating: PG-13, for adult situations and violence. 

Warnings: Mild swear words. Nothing you wouldn't see/hear on the show. Spoilers for "Initiations" and mild spoilers for "Illusion" 

Timeline: For the purposes of this story, it is assumed that KCC left in Feb/March of 93 and returned Aug/Sept. It is important to note that the story begins on Wednesday September 29, 1993 at approximately 3:30 a.m. (Somewhere between the episodes "Return of the Shadow Assassin" and "Only the Strong Survive").

Synopsis: A missing persons case becomes something much more than expected for Peter and the gang at the 101st. Kwai Chang Caine suffers a personal crisis. 

Disclaimer: The characters contained herein belong to some other nice folks, namely the creators and copyright holders of the television show Kung Fu: The Legend Continues. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just borrowing them for a time with no monetary strings attached. The new characters, while mine, are free to play in whichever sandbox they wish. 

Author's Note: This is my second time at the fufic bat folks. Comments and constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. This story has been difficult. Thanks so much to those who acted as beta readers. And a very special thanks to MS and JK for reasons you both know. J

Aquainted With The Night

By WriterJC 

__

~~"No!" 

Kwai Chang Caine watched as Peter threw up his arms and cried out in pain, too disoriented to block the blow as Caine's own sandled foot rose to land flat against the young man's chest. The impact sent the breath out of his body in a single violent whoosh. Motion slowed to half time as Peter's airborne body seemed to cave inward. With deceptive slowness, he crashed into a narrow wooden railing. It splintered beneath his weight, and he tumbled back into the wide expanse of open space. 

Fear invaded Caine's heart, scattering his senses as he gazed for a long moment into his son's disbelieving, pain-filled gaze. He felt himself propelled forward as he tried desperately to reach Peter, but it was too late. There was nothing to stop the young man's fall. 

Then he felt the burning, the liquid heat of fire licking at his heart, consuming him alive. It engulfed his spirit and his mind as he stared down to where Peter lay, deathly still, beyond help. A wooden box formed in the shape of a coffin was now Peter's home. Another sat empty, as if waiting, alongside his son. 

Fire leapt from Caine's fingers and engulfed the coffin, sizzling ominously against flesh. His own flesh, his son's flesh. Fire borne of his tears and his pain and his fear. None of his empty hollow tears could quench the flames. Nothing could end the burning and the pain. 

The jarring thud of metal being pushed against loose dirt intruded upon his horror. Feeling like a shadow of himself, a pale, shriveled remnant of what he should have been, he dragged his attention away from the flaming vision below and turned toward the sound.

Caine found himself watching a bald man dressed in a familiar orange robe. The man was half-stooped over a shovel. As Caine looked on, the man threw the shovel aside with difficulty and hobbled around six newly dug graves toward Peter. Gnarled hands reached through the flames and hefted the body. Caine gasped. 

The man turned at the small sound, Peter's body held tenderly to his chest, and looked up. Caine stared into the haggard, fire-ravaged features and realized with chilling fear that the man was himself. ~~

Kwai Chang Caine sat up in the darkness of his rooms, shocked at the intensity of his dream. Nebulous fears became a rising tide that flowed against the edges of his subconscious. He fought the wave of panic that threatened to pull him under. 

"My son," he whispered, brokenly. "What have I done?" 

* * * * * * 

Peter Caine watched as Detective Marvin Katz lifted the face of his watch into the light emitted by the nearly full moon. "You know, Pete," the man said, "I've got much better things to do at three thirty in the a.m. on a Wednesday morning." 

"Like what?" Peter scoffed, waving a hand expressively about their dark surroundings. "Why would you want to miss the ambiance of this cramped, dirty, and let's not forget smelly, alley behind a pitiful excuse for a pet shop waiting for some dirt bag robbery suspect?" 

"Right," Marvin shot back. "What was I thinking?" Then glancing searchingly into the darkness before refocusing on his partner, he continued. "I'll tell you what: We give this guy 20 minutes to show, and then we call it quits." 

"All right," Peter looked over at the other man and reluctantly agreed. Four hours in a vehicle with Marvin, coffee and day-and-night old doughnuts weren't exactly his idea of a dream date, anyway. "But you get to explain to the Mayor why this cat is still on the streets," he added.

"Hey, it wasn't my snitch that was giving out bum leads," Marvin reminded him. "Besides, we don't know if this guy knows anything or not." 

"Not--if I know Diggs. But it's worth a try. We don't have any other clues." Peter looked into the shadowed alley outside the windshield, remembering that it had been over twenty-four hours since Lydia Richmond had disappeared. The longer she was gone, the less the chances of finding her alive. A small, fleeting voice in the back of his mind kept whispering that there was something more to this case. . . something sinister, but he couldn't touch it, couldn't bring it into brighter focus. 

Shaking off the feeling, he thought to defend his prize snitch. "And Donnie's reliable. . . most of the time. Remember: It's the patient fisherman that reels in the big one."

Marvin grunted and made a face. "Eighteen minutes and counting." He held his watch aloft for emphasis. "If the Mayor wasn't riding our--" 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Peter interrupted. A movement from among the shadows caught his attention, sending his senses on alert. "I think something's biting," he said, his eyes never leaving the shadow that resolved into the form of Digby Casacus AKA Diggs. 

Peter watched as the scraggly-haired young man slunk across the alley, sticking to the shadow of the large packing crates and stacked palates. Diggs threw the length of his ragged hair over his shoulder as he glanced nervously around the alley. Seemingly satisfied that the coast was clear, he stepped out of the shadow into the pool of moonlight near the pet store's rear door. The business was little more than a front for Diggs' older brother's more exotic illegal activities. 

With a silent gesture to Marvin, Peter slipped silently from the driver's side door of his blue Stealth. He sensed the other detective's movements from the opposite side of the vehicle as he too climbed from the car. The soft thunk of a doughnut hitting the ground seemed to echo unnaturally loud in the night air. Peter fielded an apologetic look from Marvin, before risking a glance in Diggs' direction. He hoped that the young man would dismiss the sound as incidental to the night. 

He didn't. Diggs stared directly at them, frozen; like a deer caught in the headlights. Tension stretched for half a second as he appeared to consider his options. 

Peter went for his weapon. "Police! Freeze!" 

The shouted words seemed to stir Digby Casacus to action. The young man spun desperately on his heel and bolted. 

"Damnit!' Peter bit out between clenched teeth as he launched himself after the fleeing form. For a scrawny little pip squeak, Diggs could run. And jump. He cleared a downed shopping cart with room to spare as he continued his pell-mell course down the darkened alley. 

Peter put on a burst of speed as he too leapt and landed on the opposite side of the grocery cart. He could hear the heavy pounding of Marvin's footfalls growing more distant as he poured everything he had into catching the fleeing suspect, and still the distance between him and the scraggly haired young man did not seem to be closing. 

Suddenly, Diggs ran out of alley. Arms pin wheeling, he tried to slow his momentum to turn along the cross street. Peter, seeing his chance, cut the corner short and dove headlong into the running man. They both went down in a tumbled heap against neatly piled stacks of USA Today newspapers. 

Papers scattered as they rolled, coming to a stop with Peter grappling for control of the younger man. Diggs' long hair and loose shirt tails worked against him, allowing Peter convenient hand holds to drag his slippery prisoner back as he tried to resume his run. Diggs stumbled and fell to the ground flat on his back as a result of the sudden jerk brought on by Peter's grab and the sliding motion of one of the newspapers beneath his feet. 

"What is it with you guys?" Peter demanded between gasping breaths as he flopped the man roughly onto his stomach and reached for his hand cuffs. "You always come back to your old stomping grounds. Is that any way to hide out? Somebody seriously needs to rewrite the bad guys book of etiquette." 

Diggs continued to struggle against Peter's attempts to restrain him, coughing and sputtering all the while as he tried to catch his own breath. Peter jerked slightly at the young man's arms as he clicked the bracelets into place. "What? Nothing to say?" Peter asked as he dragged him to his feet. "I hope you're willing to talk to my friend back there," he gestured in the direction of Marvin's approaching footsteps. The other man had obviously dropped to a jog at some point. "Unlike myself, he's got much better things to do at four o' clock in the morning." 

Peter reached to push the young man across the street in Marvin's direction when a blinding flash of sensation tore through his mind. Slamming through him with the force of a physical blow, it snuffed his awareness of his surroundings. His system was completely overloaded with emotions and sensations so intense that it buckled his knees. Then there was a sudden spark, and the world flickered around him. All was dark. 

Sound returned, an echo of its normal clarity, gradually growing in strength until Peter could make out Marvin's voice calling to him. He fought, dragging himself back to consciousness with an effort. 

"Pete! Peter?! You okay?" 

Peter groaned and blinked, peering up into Marvin's worried expression. He was lying against a remaining stack of newspapers, and there was a painful throbbing in the vicinity of his eyes. The pain radiated up into his temples and across his forehead. Something warm and fluid was spilling out of his nostrils. 

"What happened?" he asked, sounding nasal to his own ears, as he reached a hand toward his profusely bleeding nose. He used the other hand to push himself unsteadily to his feet. 

Marvin moved to help, but then seemed to think better of it as he eyed the red fluid dripping down his friend's shirt. Instead, he cocked his head to his left where Diggs lay, flat on his back, near the edge of the street. 

"Our friend had a slight run in with a right hook after he head-butted you in the nose." The other detective took a tentative step closer and extended a handkerchief. Peter snatched it from him and bunched it at his nose. "On the good side," Marvin continued. "I don't think he broke it." 

"Good for him," Peter growled, furious at his own stupidity in letting a guy like Diggs get the drop on him. He should have known better than that. He hadn't even seen it coming. Shaking his head, he tried to clear it of the remnant sensations of the blast that he had felt in his mind. Either Diggs had learned head-butting from Hulk Hogan, or he desperately needed to get some sleep. 

* * * * * * 

"My friend, I have come as you requested." 

Caine turned from the usually calming task of making tea to face the Ancient. The man's eyes were filled with concern. Caine knew that the other man could feel a portion of the turmoil that was disturbing his spirit. 

"Thank you," he bowed slightly. "Would you like a cup of tea?" Caine asked, falling back on small courtesies as he attempted to gather his scattered thoughts. It had been a long time since he had felt so confused and unbalanced. He did not like the sensation. 

"I would like to know what frightens you, Kwai Change Caine," the Ancient said. Caine knew that the older man would not help him to continue to lean on the mundane task as a means of buffering himself. He was there to help him to face his fear, but Caine did not know if he was able. 

"It involves Peter?" Lo Si continued, showing his usual insight. 

Caine nodded once, slowly. "It does. He is in great danger. I fear for his life." 

"Peter is a cop. His life is full of dangers," Lo Si responded. "You know this. It is the path that he has chosen." 

"But this danger is to come at my hand. I will be the instrument of his death." Caine looked down and away. His heart was heavy with equal parts shame and terror. The dream was real. He -_would-_ do the things that he had seen. The very thought brought the volatile emotions to the surface of his mind. He felt powerless to hold them in, to prevent them from leeching across the room to taint all of the life in his presence. 

"You have received a warning?" Lo Si asked, frowning. Caine was not surprised to know that the old man had sensed his small loss of control.

"Yes," Caine told him. "A very vivid warning." 

"Perhaps the dream was affected by the power of your emotions," the Ancient reasoned. "You must cleanse your spirit so that you may see more clearly." The older man approached and began to go through the cabinets, selecting specific herbs and a mixing bowl. "You must meditate, Kwai Chang Caine, so that you may find the answers that you seek." 

Caine drew in a breath and bowed to the older man. "You are correct, old friend. I shall do this thing." 

"Good," Lo Si nodded in his direction. "I will help you." 

* * * * * * 

Peter sniffed slightly before walking into the interrogation room. His nose seemed to have recovered, leaving no visual evidence of his ordeal. A change of clothing and a shower had made him feel more human, but the throbbing pain behind his whole face coupled with the complete lack of sleep the night before did little to improve his mood. 

Seated in a plain, straight-backed chair with his cuffed hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, Diggs looked almost comfortable. He didn't appear at all surprised at Peter's arrival, and looked non-the-worse for wear after having been on the receiving end of Marvin's lucky right hook.

"Hey, could you get me some sugar for this?" the scraggly-haired young man asked, gesturing toward the steaming cup.

Peter rubbed a nervous hand at the side of his nose, consciously holding on to his temper. He turned and stepped out of the room toward the coffee rack. Grasping several packs of sugar from the service, he stepped back into the room and with a jerk of his head, gestured that the uniformed officer keeping watch leave. 

"Sure you wouldn't like any cream?" he asked sarcastically as he threw the packets across the table. 

"Naw, man." Digby lifted the packages in a gesture of thanks as he busily manipulated his shackled hands to tear open the white packets. Peter prowled the room as Diggs continued, making a show of stirring the sugar into the steaming brew. "How's the sniffer?" The young man asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes, stopping the detective in his tracks. 

"What did you say?" Peter was across the room and in Diggs' face before the man could draw breath. Diggs' panicked reaction toppled his coffee cup. 

"I -- nothing." Diggs leaned nervously back in his seat. "I-I didn't say nothing." 

Peter stared at the man a few moments longer, noting his obvious struggle to ignore the hot trail of the spilled coffee as it dribbled from the table against his sneakers. Peter straightened, and offered a pleasantly dangerous smile and moved back toward the door. This time he reappeared with paper towels. "Clean it up," he said quietly and tossed the towels to the trembling man. 

"Someone needs to redo the bad guys book on cleaning, too, I see," Peter murmured as he watched the man mop ineffectually at the mess, spreading it around more than cleaning it up. Leaning against the far wall, well out of the reach of the splattered liquid, he began his questioning. 

"Where's your brother?" 

Diggs looked up from his task. "I don't know where Dougie is, man. He doesn't tell me everything." 

"Yeah, obviously," Peter said. "But you're both wanted in connection with the robbery of a Lydia Richmond." 

"I didn't rob nobody," Diggs replied, some of his earlier boldness returning. 

"The camera doesn't lie, my friend." Peter told him. 

Diggs looked worriedly back down at his task, obviously trying to figure out what camera Peter was talking about or at least to come up with a convincing lie. "Uh. . . What camera?" he finally asked, but his voice betrayed his uncertainty. 

"The one on the ATM across the street," Peter told him. "It caught a nice snappy-snap of you and brother dear robbing the lady in question. What were you geniuses thinking? You robbed the mayor's niece!" 

Diggs paled, his false bravado slipping completely away. "No. No, man," he shook his head pleadingly, the remaining spilled coffee forgotten. "I didn't know she was nobody important! She wasn't driving a BMW or anything! Dougie said that if they have a nice. . . " Diggs trailed off as he realized what he had just said. 

"Oh don't stop there," Peter encouraged. "I'd love to hear what Dougie said. He's obviously the brain of your little family affair. I'll be taking your statement as a confession, by the way." Peter stood away from the wall and approached the man. "Now. Tell us where Dougie is and we might be able to go easy on you." 

"Right, easy," Diggs looked around frantically as if searching for a reply that might get him out of his present situation. "Lookit, I can bring all her stuff back to her. I can do that. I know where Dougie kept them. You don't need him. You don't need me. We can reform." 

"Reformation of character is a good thing, Diggs. You really should consider that more carefully. But, there's a little problem. The girl is missing." 

"Missing?" 

"Yes, missing," Peter replied. "You know, as in gone bye-bye, disappeared, kidnapped. We figure you and brother were the last ones we can place anywhere near her. So open wide and tell me everything." 

"Detective, we didn't do nothing to her. I swear! We just took some stuff. There was some guy who paid Dougie to do the job. You could ask Dougie, yourself, but I don't know where he is. I can't find him. I was going to try the back room. . . that's where he kept--"

"What?" Peter cut off Diggs' nervous babble of words. "Someone paid you to mug the girl? Who? We'll need a description." 

"I-I-I didn't never see him." Diggs stuttered. "Dougie handled it all. The stuff and everything." 

Peter blew out a thoughtful breath. "What about this back room. Where is it?" 

"At the shop. There's a secret room. It's really Dougie's sorta. . .love nest, if you know what I mean. You can check there for the stuff. He would tell you the same thing I did. We didn't do anything to that girl." 

Peter considered the man for several moments, then glanced toward the glass observation window. "Tell you what Diggs. What say you tell me how to find this 'back room' and then my Chief of Detectives will see what he can do for you." 

Diggs nodded. "Anything, Detective. Anything you say." 

* * * * * * 

Kwai Chang Caine sat in full lotus before a ceremonial arrangement of candles and burning herbs. The fire-released essences of the mixture served to center his mind and strengthen his focus. His subconscious would direct his journey, taking him to the place that he needed to go to find the answers that he sought. 

A slight disorientation came over him and then his mind blurred. The mists of time began to dance at the periphery of his meditative consciousness before drifting slowly across his vision. When the mists cleared, he found himself resting against a tree beneath the warmth of the Sun. A small child was cradled gently against his chest. 

He looked down at the warm bundle and smiled, tenderness and love filling his being. The child stretched its arms above its head and yawned. The small mouth opened wide and the tiny eyes squenched closed as a tiny breath of air of expelled. Caine found himself chuckling out loud at the display. The child blinked up at his father, wide hazel eyes sleepily curious. 

"That's it, my beautiful son," Caine spoke softly to the child. "Allow the air to flow freely through your lungs, so that you may grow straight and strong." 

The child yawned again, audibly, before cuddling against his father's shoulder for more sleep. The young priest brushed a hand across the downy hair that covered his son's head. He reveled in the way that the silky strands always stubbornly returned to their natural curl. 

Dropping a kiss on the still-soft skull, Caine glanced across the clearing to where his wife sat at the water's edge, rinsing dishes. The sun glinted in her reddish hair and across her slim form, making her seem more like an illusion of light than the flesh and blood woman who held the keys to his heart. 

She must have sensed his gaze upon her, for she turned and waved in his direction, then blew him a kiss. Caine smiled, and reached mentally for her, sending his love. It didn't matter that she could not do the same in return. He felt her love in other ways, and it wrapped him in its warmth and made him joyful for each day that was theirs. 

As the thought crossed his mind, a wisp of worry edged through him on an almost subconscious level. He looked across at his Laura, seeking to find the source of the fear. She had completed her task and was moving away from the waters to return the dishes to their place, and then to clear away the remains of their picnic. She was not the source of the worry, he realized. It had come from within. 

Gathering the edges of his consciousness, he dropped into a light meditation and focused inward. The wisp of fear was fleeting, and he found that he had to focus more deeply into the trance. As if from a great distance, he heard the sound of a heart slowing, ever slowing, moving toward an eternal halt. The beat of it echoed through his mind and became one with his own. And then the mists cleared. Laura, his beautiful Laura, lay grasped in his arms. 

The truth in her eyes choked him with a pain beyond description. "I'm sorry. . .my heart," she managed weakly, lifting a hand to his face. She wiped at the flow of tears that he feared would never stop. 

"Peter. . . tell Peter. . . I love him. . ." Her last words were uttered on a whispered breath as Caine felt the essence that was Laura began to fade. Her hand dropped from his cheek and rested against his shoulder before completing its slow descent to the bed. 

Caine grasped it, hoping to infuse more life into her, if only moments. But it was not to be. There was nothing more he could do. His denial came out in a choked cry as the light of his life extinguished. She was no more, and he was inconsolable. 

"Caine!" The sound of his wife's worried voice, and the warm touch of her hands, dragged the young priest from his meditations. The piercing pain of the vision still stabbed at his heart, so much so that he had not realized that his son was crying or that his wife had approached. 

"Are you all right?" Laura asked him. 

He looked at her, struggling to hide the fear of future heart break. "How can I not be, when you are here?" he told her with difficulty. 

Laura smiled gently at him. "I'll take that to mean that you aren't quite ready to tell me yet." 

Caine felt the mists of time rising around him again, dragging him away from the warmth of the park and the soothing presence of his wife. When his vision cleared again, he was in the temple, speaking with Ping Hi. 

"You must learn to accept that which cannot be changed," the old man was telling him. "On this the future depends." 

"Acceptance," Caine repeated. "I must learn acceptance." It was a mantra that would help him through the dark days that were to come. "I must learn acceptance." 

The mists rose and took him again.

* * * * * * 

Peter sat at his desk going through Douglas and Digby Casacus' list of priors. Aside from money laundering, both were generally small-time hitters. Kidnapping didn't fall into their sphere of influence. Several times through both their records as well as those of their known accomplices yielded nothing. Peter sighed. Again the small voice tickled at the edges of his mind. There was something unsettling about this case. He didn't know whether to blame cop instinct or so-called mystic vision. 

He looked toward the empty office of Paul Blaisdell. The man he could have talked out the cop instinct part of the equation was away again; effectively out of touch. If it were some mystic. . . Nah, he shook it off. Enough years on the job had given him the instinct to know when a case wasn't following the usual formula. This case wasn't following the usual formula, and that was the bottom line. 

He thought back to the pieces of evidence that had been retrieved from the victim's vehicle. Among them had been a large pendant bearing the symmetrical black and white colors of Yin & Yang. Pulling the picture from the file, he thoughtfully ran his fingers across the surface. 

Maybe something about the physical evidence would give him a clue as to the person who might have paid the Casacus brothers to mug Lydia Richmond. 

He closed his eyes and remembered. The pendant, carved and sanded with care from a soft wood, had been hand painted. The sweet scent of the hobby paint had still clung to its surface when it had been bagged as evidence. A thin leather cord had been worked through a small hook at the top of the pendant. Forensics had yielded no finger prints and no distinguishing marks. 

As Peter opened his eyes, thinking the task useless, another flash washed over him, rendering him mildly dizzy. He blinked against it and shook his head. He needed to get moving before he crashed right there at his desk.

Tapping the picture against the side of the folder, he looked toward Strenlich's office. The Chief was still arguing with either the judge or the Mayor or both. He did understand the Mayor's desire for almost hourly updates, but it was a hindrance to police work and it made Frank a very cranky guy. 

Peter glanced back down at the symbol of Yin & Yang, and decided that perhaps it was time to ask a blood relative a few questions. Maybe there was something important about the medallion that his father might be able to make out. From the looks of things, Strenlich would be busy for a while. Peter figured he had time to make a quick trip to Chinatown. 

* * * * * * 

The woman trained her binoculars into the building across the street. The man in her view looked as if he was meditating, or maybe he was just a grade A blast-from-the-past flower child. No one dressed like he did anymore. And with all those candles, incense and herbs, she could probably find a few drug violations in the apartment as well. Pulling the binoculars from her eyes, she cast a look toward the opening door of the small apartment. 

"Any motion, yet?" her companion, a tall brown-haired man with deep blue eyes asked. He settled a bag emblazoned with the logo of a local bagel chain as well as two cups of coffee on the nearby table. 

"Nah," the woman shook her head and reached for the bag. "A kook definitely. He's been meditating all morning. Probably trying to come up with more nefarious deeds to plague humanity with." 

"Well, he definitely fits Grey's new profile," the man responded accepting the bagel she offered and spreading it with a packet of cream cheese. "Who knows what horrors abound in the darkness of the human psyche?" 

The woman hurumped as she reached into the bag for another bagel. "You're starting to sound like him. When's he getting here, anyway?" 

"Soon," the man replied. "And there are worse people to sound like. Jason Grey is a great man." He stopped chewing as he observed her turning the bag upside down. The woman made sure that her frustration was evident. 

"Where the hell is the jelly? All that's in here is -_lowfat_- cream cheese!" She tossed a few napkins out of the way. "And where's my sugar?" 

"I didn't get any," the man resumed his chewing. "You don't need that stuff. It's poison." 

"And fake cream cheese isn't?" she demanded with a wave of her hand. "Jeez, McGruder. Do you want me to lump you in with that lunatic geezer across the street?" 

"Listen, Inez, I'm just protecting our equipment The sugar and the jelly makes everything all sticky if you spill it." The insinuation that she tended to spill things was there in his expression which served to only make the woman angry.

"So does blood," was her growled reply. "Now, go get me some sugar before I'm forced to plug you one." 

"This is why I enjoy working with you so much," the man moved to his feet. "You're a woman after my own heart. And since you asked so nicely, I will go and get these items for you. The state of your health is on your own head." 

"Thank you," the woman's smile was just short of menacing. "I'm a bear without my sugar." 

* * * * * * 

Peter stepped into his father's apartment and came face to face with the Ancient. The little man was an immovable wall, not allowing him to proceed further into Caine's rooms. 

"What's up?" Peter asked, taken aback. "Is my father here?" 

"He is here," Lo Si replied, but still did not move. 

"Well, can I see him?" Peter raised an impatient brow as he moved to go around. 

"No. You may not." Lo Si moved to further block his entrance. "He cannot be disturbed." 

"Not even by me?" Peter asked, feeling hurt. "Did he say that?" 

"He did not, yet it was understood." 

Peter opened his mouth as if to speak further, but then stepped back and paced in a circle. He hadn't seen his father very much since the weekend, but when he had he hadn't mentioned that there was anything going on. And now, he really needed to talk to him. 

"This could be a matter of life and death, Lo Si. It's very important that I talk to him. He might be able to help me on a case." Peter tried again. "I know it's not any of -_my_- business what he does -- after all, I'm only his son -- but certainly if someone's life is in danger. . . " 

"He can not help you at this time. When he is ready, he will seek -_you-_ out." The old man replied. "He is not--" 

"Not to be disturbed, I got it!" Peter lost his temper. "Don't call me, I'll call you?! Isn't that right, POP?!" Peter yelled loudly over the ancient's shoulder, hoping that his father got the message. He had certainly gotten his. On the Kwai Chang Caine list of priorities, Peter Caine figured dead last. 

"You must calm your --" Lo Si attempted to speak again, but Peter cut him off. 

"I must what? I must calm my voice, my spirit? I can't do that Lo Si, because I have to go help someone. Someone who's lost and probably alone and waiting to die. I thought my father would be willing to help me, but I guess I was wrong." 

With that, Peter turned on his heel and left the apartment. There was nothing else he could do. He felt impotent and alone. He hated feeling that way. As he slammed out of the front door into the sun, he struggled visibly for control. Being angry with his father was not going to help him. 

Running a hand through his hair, he turned and headed for his car. A quick shimmer of something in his peripheral vision caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. With studied nonchalance, he climbed into his car, careful to keep the shimmer to his back as he observed through the rearview mirror. His jaw tightened resolutely as he spun the car out into the street and circled the block. 

* * * * * * 

Peter crept along the hall that led to the apartment where he figured that he had seen the shimmer of light. The sound of the elevator opening at the end of the corridor sent him scurrying into a recessed doorway. He ducked his head as if he were looking for his keys. 

The dark-overcoated man that passed seemed to eye him suspiciously, but continued on his way, carrying a small white bag. While the man bent his head to slide his key into the lock, Peter quickly approached him from behind. 

"Hey, I was wondering if you could help me?" Peter caught sight of a dark-haired woman through the partially open door. She was standing near a patio window, hastily trying to hide a pair of binoculars. A table before her was spread with what looked like take-out breakfast.

The man turned toward him and moved a broad shoulder so that the room was blocked from his view, but it was too late. Peter knew exactly what a stakeout looked like when he saw one. 

"What can I help you with?" the man asked in overly polite tones. 

"Well for starters," Peter began. "How about you--" 

His words were cut off by the reappearance of the woman. She swung the door open with a booted foot and trained her gun in Peter's face. "How about -you- step into my office?" she finished for him. Her hands were steady, and her eyes held the steely glint of someone who had pulled the trigger and had no qualms about doing it again. 

Peter thought about reaching for his own gun, but at the little shake of her head, telling him that she was aware of what he was thinking, he thought better of it. 

"Get his gun," the woman ordered the man. "Right hip." 

Peter's eyes widened. This was no ordinary bad gal. The fact that she knew where he kept his gun suggested that she knew a lot more about him than he did about her. He raised his hands and allowed the man to relieve him of his gun. 

"Now, Detective Caine," the woman gestured with her gun. "Please. Step into my office." 

Peter complied. 

Peter was pushed onto a lumpy sofa that looked as if it had seen better days, none of them recent. "Love the décor," he commented throwing a cocky glance in the woman's direction. "Who'd you hire? Stakeouts R us?" 

"Shut up." The woman said with a menacing twitch of the corner of her mouth. 

"I was just--" Peter began, but the woman took a step closer and held the gun against this throat. 

"Just don't." 

Peter swallowed, and looked into the woman's glittering green eyes. Perhaps now wasn't the time for the Caine charm. Her panties were obviously in a wad from way back. 

"That's better." She took a step away and handed the gun to the man. "Keep an eye on him," she ordered, and snatched the white bag from the man's hand. With impatient motions, she tore the bag open and pulled out sugar and jelly and proceeded to wolf down her breakfast. 

Peter looked on in disgust. He was sure that he had never seen anyone so petite take such big bites. . . or make such a mess. A spot of jelly and coffee were prominently displayed on her blouse front when after no more than a minute, she was done. 

"The coffee was cold," she grumbled, moving back to her feet. "But I feel better. Never piss me off before breakfast. . . " 

"Or get in the way. . . " Peter muttered. 

The woman shot an acid look in his direction as she reached into her jacket. 

Peter jerked instinctively, reaching for his non-existent gun. The woman gave him a wicked grin as he came up empty handed, and flashed a black leather identification holder at him. "Special Agents Inez Strong and Thomas McGruder," she told him, before folding the ID back into her pocket. 

"Wait a minute," Peter came to his feet in outrage. "What do you think--" Inez revealed another gun from some place on her person and pointed it toward him. 

"I'm going to give you back your weapon and ask that you to leave the building quietly." She spoke softly, ignoring his outburst. "Otherwise, I will be perfectly within my rights to shoot you in some not-quite-vital part of your anatomy for interfering in a federal investigation. And if I'm not perfectly within my rights," she shrugged, looking his long, jean clad legs over. "I'll settle for imperfectly." 

Peter blinked incredulously. And they called him a loose cannon? "At least tell me if the person you have under surveillance is the man in the apartment with the balcony." 

Agent Strong offered another slight crook of her mouth that Peter was beginning to identify as her smile. "Sorry, Detective. You don't have a need to know." 

"Right." Peter accepted his gun and the apologetic look from McGruder before leaving the room. He had both their names and he had Kermit. He would learn what they were up to one way or another. 

* * * * * * 

The room was darkened, and a man was bent over a work area wearing plastic gloves. An array of brushes and four cans of paint were set out before him. All was in harmony, and everything had fallen into place. Just like he had planned. Just like the universe had planned. 

With gentle strokes of the brush across the lovingly sanded wood, he began to murmur quietly to himself. 

A hunter and his prey; dead he became. 

A woman and a man; one life retained

A woman a child; no time for games. 

A father and a son. Go break the chain.

The man chuckled softly and halted his work to look at the pictures of those that had been chosen. "Hunter. Prey." He touched the images tacked to his pegboard. A lovely young woman was looking frightened up at a scraggly-haired man. 

"Woman. Man." He smiled again as he looked at the images. The couple looked as if they were newlyweds. 

"Woman. Child." A boy of about ten was being dropped off at school by his mother. 

"Father. Son. Freedom." The man removed the tack from the image on the board. The two men were walking along a busy Chinatown street. The unmistakable corner of a holster was visible beneath the younger man's jacket.

"You will free me, Kwai Chang Caine." The man ran his gloved hand over the picture and carefully returned it to its place. "You will free me from the Curse of the Thirteenth Moon." 

* * * * * * 

Peter glanced up from Kermit's monitor as Strenlich appeared around the door. 

"Got the warrant." The older man held up the folded piece of paper that allowed them entrance into the Fourth Street Pet Shop and Supply Store. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," Peter replied and clapped Kermit on the back, thanking him for the favor. 

"All secrets will be revealed by the time you get back," Kermit responded with an enigmatic grin. 

Peter returned the grin, then turned toward Strenlich.

"Police business?" the Chief asked, handing over the paper as he dragged his eyes from the sight of Kermit rubbing his hands together in anticipation before placing them on the keyboard. 

"Absolutely," Peter replied. He knew that Frank probably suspected that what he had involved Kermit in was personal. But it simply wouldn't be good for Frank's ulcers if Peter told him that the personal business involved hacking into FBI files. 

Joining with the team of waiting uniforms, he exited the precinct. 

The drive to the Pet Shop was a short one. The place was locked up tight. No one had opened the store for business that day. Diggs had been kind enough to offer them a key. As they stepped inside, a red haired woman -- that had been loitering nearby, approached. 

"Are you the new manager?" she questioned in a high-pitched voice. "Did someone try to break in?" 

Peter glanced over the uniformed officers. "No, we're all police officers," he responded. "We have a warrant to search these premises. Who are you?" 

The woman seemed taken aback by their purpose. "I work here. I come in three times a week to help with the animals. I thought Mr. Casacus called to tell you to come and open up the shop for me." The woman obviously had no idea what type of business her boss was involved in, and as she became more worried, her voice became more higher pitched. 

Peter left one of the uniforms with the unenviable task of trying to gather the woman's contact information and getting a statement. 

Relieved to be away, Peter moved through the rows of animals and supplies to the door that Diggs had told him would lead to a narrow stairway. The smell of animal feed and other associated aromas clung to the place. How anyone could have a so-called love nest over a pet shop, he would never understand. 

As he opened the door at the top of the stairs, he found a surprisingly neat apartment containing a living area and a kitchen. Dougie Casacus was nowhere to be found. Peter took a moment to search through the items on the coffee table and look around the small kitchen before moving toward the panel that Diggs said would lead to Dougie's secret room. 

He had barely slid the panel away to reveal the dimness of the room beyond when the smell of hobby paint assaulted his nostrils. He paused, all of his senses going on alert. Something wasn't right here. The bloody arm that suddenly fell through the opening and hit his shoe only served to confirm his suspicions.

Peter jerked his foot backward instinctively, and found the leather strap of a Yin & Yang medallion tangled around his toe. Spots of dark red marred the perfect symmetry of the black and white painted surface. 

* * * * * * 

Caine unfolded himself from his meditative position and looked up as Lo Si entered the room. He knew by the man's expression that something had happened. He was centered, and if not ready to face whatever must come, prepared to accept that which could not be changed. 

"Peter was here?" he asked. 

"Yes," the Ancient told him. "You must talk to him." 

"He must be warned of the danger that I pose to him. But I should not be the one to tell him." 

"Is this what your meditations reveal?" Lo Si asked. "That you will indeed harm your son?" 

"My meditations reveal many things," Caine said. "There are many paths before me. There is the path of fear, which leads to the darkness of being. There is the path of love, that leads to the darkness of the unknown. And then there is the path of acceptance which also leads to great darkness." 

"Where does the darkness lead?" 

"I do not know," Caine replied. "The path becomes unclear. I cannot see beyond the darkness. Perhaps acceptance is the lesson that I must learn." 

"There are three paths, Kwai Chang Caine. But, you must learn the lessons of fear and love as well. To do this, you must embrace the darkness. Go to your son, talk to him. And then perhaps you may be able to see more clearly." 

Caine bowed his head slightly in deference to the older man's greater wisdom. 

* * * * * * 

"What have you got?" Peter settled tiredly into a chair in Kermit's office. The hacker had stuck his head out moments before and waved the detective in. 

"The tangled web we weave. . ." was Kermit's reply as he tapped a few keys on the keyboard and displayed images of the two agents that Peter had asked him about earlier. 

"They're the ones, all right," Peter nodded, reading the information that scrolled across the terminal. 

"But wait," Kermit punched another key. "It gets better." 

The image of Thomas McGruder was decreased in size and moved to one side of the screen, while Agent Strong's image was replaced by the image of a medallion similar to the one found in Lydia Richmond's car. Beside it was another medallion like the one that had been found in Dougie Casacus's love nest. Spots of red marred its surface in an identical pattern to the ones that were found at the pet shop. 

"So they're involved in this somehow," Peter mused. Then pointing to the medallion, "Is that blood?"

Kermit tapped a few keys, and selected a file that showed the forensics report on the necklace. "Nope. It's paint. Just like the rest of it." 

"So we have a serial killer on our hands," Peter stated. "A bizarre one, but a killer nevertheless." 

"More than bizarre," Kermit commented. "Look at the dates of the murders: December 31, 1990; May 1988; July 1985." He paged down. "There were always eight victims, still working out the details on that part. Hit a brick wall. The rest of the file has been classified at a higher level. All I need is a little more time and I'm sure I can come up with something else." 

"You're a genius," Peter said. "Was there any mention of my father in any of the files?" 

"Not that I could find," the hacker told him. "But I did discover something about the dates. They all coincide with blue moons. . . " 

Peter missed the rest of what Kermit was saying as a dark-haired woman with striking green eyes entered the squad room. He would know that cold look, swagger and coffee-stained blouse anywhere.

"Well, well. . . " he moved out of his chair and crept to the door. The woman and her partner and another gentleman were talking to Strenlich. Peter moved across the precinct, determined to learn the reason for their visit. As he approached, he heard Agent McGruder ask for information on Kwai Chang Caine. 

"What do you want information on him for?" Peter demanded, loudly making his presence known. 

Agent Inez Strong turned a coolly critical eye on him. "We just want to get a feel for the man, find out what's not in the official reports. We had hoped to keep -_you-_ out of it." 

"And why is that?" Peter wanted to know. "Because he's my father? It -was- him you were watching. Just why the hell is it that you've been spying on him? Tell me, what crime is it that you're accusing him of?" 

"Murder," Agent Strong replied. "Or at least conspiracy to commit." 

Peter took a step toward the woman, and Strenlich put out a hand to stop him. "Detective Caine," he offered a warning look. 

Peter acquiesced. Not because he was worried about Frank, but because he wanted to know what the agents were up to. He wouldn't find out if he got sent away to cool off. 

"In my office," Strenlich directed the entire group. 

"I want to see your so-called evidence that implicates my father in a murder," Peter demanded when the door had barely shut. 

Agent McGruder began to speak. "Lydia Richmond, the niece of this town's mayor, I believe, is missing. A medallion was found in her vehicle. Just like this one." He held up a photograph containing the image of the medallion. 

"A few hours ago," he consulted a notebook. "You found the body of a Douglas A. Casacus at the Fourth Street Pet Shop and Supply Store. A necklace like this one was found on his body." He displayed the picture of the familiar black and white medallion marred by thirteen perfectly rounded red spots. 

He continued, sure that he had the attention of both Peter and Strenlich. "These crimes fit the MO of someone that has been dubbed as the--" 

"Blue moon killer," Peter filled in for him. 

All three Agents looked sharply in his direction.

"How did you know that?" McGruder asked. 

"Let's just say your partner and the happy-go-lucky way she waved her gun around made me curious," Peter shot back. "I have my sources. But what does any of this have to do with my father?" 

"We found his name in a field report filed by an Agent Droney about a year ago. Seems he was involved in a DEA investigation of some type of drug dealer because of an obscure dialect. Droney did a background check on him. He also wrote very meticulous notes. Everything in that agent's notes fit the profile of the killer that is now plaguing your fine city. Can you tell us, Detective Caine, where your father has been for the past nine years?" 

Peter avoided the question. The agent's probably already knew when his father had walked back into his life. "Just what's in this profile?" he asked, instead. 

McGruder shrugged expressively. "He's of oriental descent. . ." 

"A stretch in my book . . . but what the hell. . . " Strong interrupted in the background. 

". . . powerful in his community," McGruder continued, ignoring his partner. "He's ritualistic, involved in mystical disciplines. . . " 

". . . crazy," Strong interjected, and Peter's jaw tightened as he glared in her direction. She merely smiled back, seemingly happy to get a rise out of him. 

"He frequents the paper shop where the announcement was made." 

Peter sat up. "What announcement?" 

The third member of the party reached into the folder and handed over a plastic encased sheet of paper. Four lines of poetry were written across the front in Chinese. A yellow post-it note bore a translation in English. 

A hunter and his prey; dead he became. 

A woman and a man; one life retained

A woman a child; no time for games. 

A father and a son. Go break the chain.

"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out," Agent Strong cut in sarcastically as he read. "The killer likes to announce the city where he's going to pick his victims. It's a game with him. He likes to leave little clues like bread crumbs for us to follow. The clue this time, cutie, was in the paper. It was made in a shop in this very city in Chinatown. Your nutty father goes there often." 

"My father is not nutty," Peter corrected her, tossing the paper to Strenlich.

"He's definitely not normal," Strong shot back. 

"I'll bet no one's ever accused you of being normal, or even--" 

"Detective. . . " Strenlich put up a hand and shook his head. 

"No, Chief!" Peter rejected Frank's attempts to calm him. As far as he was concerned, the agents had nothing on his father and were simply grasping at straws. "They come in here accusing my father of being some sort of serial killer on a story so thin it's anemic, and I'm supposed to just sit here and --" 

The formerly silent third member of the party from the federal government cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he spoke in a quiet voice. Peter leveled him with an angry look, but something in the man's pale gray eyes gave him pause. 

"Actually, I came here hoping that you might add your rather copious energy and apparent skill to the effort of solving this case." 

Peter stared at the man for a few moments longer, sizing him up. The man was much older than the other two. His black hair was streaked with gray and was beginning to thin a little on top. "Who are you?" Peter asked. 

"I'm Grey. Jason Grey. I suppose you might say that I'm something of a consultant." A small smile touched the corners of his mouth and he offered a small nod. Peter almost imagined that it was a bow. 

"Consultant?" Peter couldn't resist injecting the nasty inference that Strong and McGruder needed help. That help probably leaned toward the psychological in Strong's case, Peter added silently.

"Retired from the agency." Grey told him, gently relieving him of the weapon of words. "Tell us about your father," he urged. 

Peter made a face. "Why? To give you more ammunition against him? I don't think so." 

"No, no," Grey shook his head. "I no longer view him as a suspect. The estimated time of death for Mr. Casacus is approximately 4 a.m. this morning. Your father was under surveillance at the time. He could not have committed the crime."

Peter was glad someone saw it his way. "So why do you still need to hear about him?" he wanted to know. 

"Because it will give us insight into the killer's mind," Grey suggested. "Because despite the fact that your father has been eliminated as a suspect, the killer will still be someone like him, perhaps even someone he knows. Do you think your father would be willing to talk to us?" 

Peter looked uncomfortable. "No, I don't think so. Not today. I'll ask him about it tomorrow." 

"He isn't doing anything but meditating and drinking tea," Strong grumbled under her breath. 

"I said not today!" Peter turned on her, not sure what to do with the fact that he was defending his father's decision. "He can't help us right now." 

"Tomorrow may be too late," Grey pressed. "This killer kills in a very precise fashion. Four days before the full moon, he takes two victims. Three days before he kills one, and takes two more. Two days before, he kills another and takes two more. On the day of the full moon, he takes another and then, under the light of the blue moon, he kills them all.

"Today is day two before the blue moon, Detective Caine. He will kill one tonight, and tomorrow he will kill them all." 

Peter felt the weight of all of those lives on his shoulders as he looked across at the gray-eyed man. "Will tonight's killing happen in Chinatown?" he asked hoarsely.

"More than likely," Grey nodded. "That's would fit his MO. He's followed the same pattern for the past three blue moons, down to the letter." 

"Can't we just show up in force?" Peter asked, turning to Strenlich. "A large police presence may scare him off and buy us some time." 

Strenlich nodded, considering the idea. "We can try that. I'm certain we won't have any problems getting approval from the Mayor." 

* * * * * * 

Kermit poked his head out of his office and took in the nearly empty squad room. 

"Hey, where's Peter Caine?" he asked no one in particular. 

"Just missed him," a uniform answered. "Stakeout in Chinatown with the Feds." 

"Right," Kermit muttered as he closed the door and slipped back into his lair. He had managed to get around yet another wall in the tangled maze of secrets that was the life blood of the government. What he had discovered had made him very suspicious. 

He settled back behind his screen and typed in a command. "Let's dance," he told the monitor as he began to peel away more layers of the things the country allowed to happen in the interest of national security, or just outright stupidity. 

* * * * * * 

Peter slammed his car phone back into place and tossed a look toward the Agent at his side. "Nothing yet from missing persons. But then, tonight's victims wouldn't have been missing 24 hours yet. The damn system is working against us." 

"Perhaps that is why he does it that way," Grey suggested gazing thoughtfully into the night. 

Peter cast him a measuring glance. He still wondered that he'd ended up partnered with Jason Grey. The consultant. "Why is it they pulled you out of retirement?" he asked the man. Agents Strong and McGruder were an odd pair, but according to the information that Kermit had been able to gather, their solve and capture ratios were above average. So were the number of baddies they brought in with bullet wounds, but they did all seem to live. 

"I wrote the profile," Grey surprised him by saying. 

"You must have gotten to know this killer pretty well, being that this is his fourth time out." Peter watched the man carefully. 

"Too well," Grey agreed with him. Then taking a deep breath, he rubbed a hand over his ribs. "Lost a partner and gained a bullet for my efforts." 

"He slipped up last time and I came very close to catching him," Grey continued. "That's when I was shot. I retired after that and swore I'd never get involved with this kind of violence again. But when the agency asked me to help out, I discovered that I really do want to rid the world of this monster. Especially in light of the news that the doctors gave me a while back." 

"What news is that?" Peter asked. 

"That I have a terminal illness that is going to take another year to kill me," Grey said simply. "It would be nice if I could make one last mark before it all ends." 

"Grey. . . I'm sorry," Peter murmured. How did you talk to someone who was forced to face their mortality in a very real sense? He looked out of the window and back toward the ex-agent. 

"Oh, don't let it bother you," Grey told him. "I've had a good life, for the most part. Had a wife, children, spiritual enlightenment, righted a few wrongs, balanced a few scales," he chuckled thoughtfully. "I am like the flower that has touched the circle of life in all its parts. I will not cry when it is time for me to be picked." 

Peter let out a soft chuckle. "That sounds just like something my father would say." 

Grey shrugged. "In my younger years I spent some time in a temple. It helped me get in touch with my heritage. I guess that's part of the reason I see a different perspective on this killer." 

"You're Shaolin?" Peter turned back to face him, stunned. He'd known that there were other temples, but he simply hadn't thought that he would meet anyone that had trained at one. 

"No." Grey laughed. "No. See, no marks," he rolled up his sleeves. "I was only there for a couple of years. And I don't usually tell people about that time. I get the feeling that they wouldn't quite understand." 

"Tell me about it," Peter agreed with a laugh. "But you had the Shaolin training, and then you went into law enforcement. How did you balance the teachings against the life of a cop?" 

Grey shrugged. "Sometimes, Peter, you don't. And then sometimes the teachings balance you. I found ways to use them in my work." 

"Wow. My father would definitely not agree with you."

"I suppose not," Grey said. "It's definitely the road less traveled." Peter felt the man's eyes studying him. "I'd imagine that your father is a very tenacious man. Very strong, with deep set beliefs and very deep emotions. He listens to people, and is very giving. He would give his life for you. And you would do the same for him." 

Peter felt an edge of uneasiness creep over him. "You know, that's eerie," he said, trying to inject a little humor. "You've pretty much pegged him. How well do you know my father?" 

"Sorry," Grey shook his head slightly. "It's the old profiler urge rearing its head." He reached for one of the cold cups of coffee and examined its contents. He took a swig of the cold brew and shuddered visibly. "I'm out of practice on this stakeout business," he said. "I think your precinct has just about every crevice of Chinatown covered. We never got this much support in the other cities this monster hit." 

"Well, we're a close-knit bunch," Peter told him, picking up his own cup of coffee. A very unappetizing film was beginning to form across the surface.

Grey nodded and looked toward the starry sky. "Can I offer you a word of advice?" 

"Sure." Peter didn't know where Grey was headed, but anywhere was better than psycho-analyzation of his father and their relationship. He risked a sip of the cold coffee. For the caffeine boost it offered, it was worth taking a chance. 

"Watch out for Agent Strong. I think she's got the hots for you." 

Peter choked, spilling half the remaining coffee all over his shirt front. 

"My apologies," Grey laughed as he handed over the napkins. "I suppose I might have waited a few seconds. I thought you knew."

Peter was still trying to get past the coughing and couldn't quite answer the man. His hands were busy trying to mop up what coffee he could. 

"Listen," Grey glanced at his watch, obviously still trying to stifle his humor. "Why don't I go get us another round. It's still early yet. I'll be sure to bring extra napkins this time." 

Peter tossed him a dirty look, but nodded. "You're gonna have to explain that one you know," he managed to the man's back. 

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Grey continued to chuckle as he disappeared into the night. 

Peter coughed again, and then shook himself. He certainly hoped the man was wrong. It wasn't that Agent Inez wasn't an attractive woman--she was. Well, if she cleaned up a little. No, his problem with the tiny terror was that she was scarier than any drug dealer or serial killer he had ever had to face. Being late for one date might gain him a shot in a part of his body that he would definitely find vital. 

He had convinced himself that Grey was just pulling his chain when a face appeared at his driver's side window. He started and spilled the coffee that was left in the cup as his hand went automatically for his gun. "Dammit, Pop! Don't do that!" He reached for an already drenched napkin, then threw it back into the bag. This was useless. 

"I am sorry," Caine said in his usual quiet manner. "I did not mean to startle you." He pulled a folded square of fabric from his bag and passed it through the car window. 

"Yeah, well, that's all right," Peter grumbled as he began to clean himself up. Again. He'd wanted to speak with his father earlier and now the man was here. Unfortunately it was cosmically bad timing. "I'm sort of in the middle of a stakeout here," he said. "Can we talk first thing in the morning. There are these FBI guys who--" 

"No," Caine shook his head. 

Peter turned his full attention on the older man, noticing for the first time how distant and reserved he was. And this was the second time that his father had refused to help. "What?" he demanded. "Is it just me that you don't want to help?" 

Caine shook his head. "No." 

Peter blew out an exasperated breath. "Well then it is you? Is there something I can help you with?" 

Caine held up a silencing hand. "You cannot, my son. My very presence here brings danger to you." 

Peter frowned. "Well, this -is- a stakeout. We -are- hunting a serial killer." He looked into his father's eyes and a little of the anger faded. "But I feel safer with you as my back up than anyone I've ever met." 

Caine offered an almost smile and then shook his head as if shaking off demons. "You honor me with you faith. But in this instance, I am a danger to you. A darkness has come, and it is very close. You must stay away from me until I learn of a way to either defeat it or accept it." 

"I don't understand. Stay away from you? Why? Is someone coming after you?" 

"No." 

"Then what?!" 

"Someone will come after you." 

"Me? But then, why would you want me to stay away from you? Wouldn't you be there to help me? Isn't that part of the father thing, being there to help me fight the shadows?" 

Caine appeared to swallow with difficulty. "Yes, that is part of the father thing. But my path is darkened with uncertainty and doubt. Until I can clarify my way, I can be of little help to you. Do as I ask, Peter, and keep your distance." 

Peter looked into his father's eyes, as dark as his own in the night. "Who is coming after me, father?" he asked softly, fearing the answer that he knew would come from his father's lips. 

Peter saw his father open his mouth to speak, and then wince as if against great pain. And then he felt a sensation similar to the one that he had experienced the night before. It tore through his mind, flooding him with weakness. A strong hand clamped over his arm and the world steadied. 

"We must go," his father urged him, half dragging him from the car. 

"What? Why?" Peter barely managed to grab the walkie-talkie before stumbling out of the vehicle after the older man. Hadn't he just told him to stay away? This made no sense. "What's going on, Pop?" 

"Someone needs our help." 

Peter didn't ask any more questions, but ran after his father for several blocks and turned into a darkened alley. He could see the outline of a body lying in the alley up ahead. 

"Officer needs assistance at the alley at Third and Greenleaf," he spoke into the walkie-talkie as he headed into the alley after his father. Kwai Chang Caine was bent over a man who lay spread-eagled among a pile of boxes, struggling to breathe. Peter got a close look at the source of the man's difficulties as he moved around his father. A pearl-handled knife was buried hilt deep into the man's torso. Blood welled around the wound, soaking the man's shirt and spilling to the ground around him. 

Peter replied to the answering voice over the walkie-talkie, requesting an ambulance as he watched the combination of priest, apothecary and caring human being that was his father work. 

"Do not try to move," Caine attempted to reassure the man. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and put something in his mouth. "This will help you to be calm," he explained. "Now you must close your eyes." 

The man's panicked eyes tracked to Peter who'd approached to kneel at his other side. "I'm a cop. This man is my father. He can help you." Peter hurried to put the man at ease. 

The panic seemed to drain a little from the man's eyes and he looked hopefully back toward Caine before closing his eyes. 

"Good," Caine encouraged him. "Now, imagine flowers on a warm spring day. You can go to this place and find comfort. Yes, that is good." 

The man's breathing began to slow to a soft pant as Caine continued to speak softly to him. By then, Peter could hear the running feet of his fellow officers. He turned back to the victim who seemed much calmer. 

"Can you tell us what happened?" Peter asked. "Who attacked you?" 

"He quoted. . . poetry," the man gasped, then winced. His breathing began to quicken again. Peter placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder as he prepared to ask the next question, but a slight shake of his father's head stopped him. 

"There will be time later," Caine assured him. 

The man turned searching eyes toward Peter and lifted a hand in his direction. He clutched a wooden medallion containing the symbol of Yin & Yang. Thirteen perfect red spots marred the surface. 

Caine reached for the medallion and gasped. 

"Pop? What is it?" Peter grasped the older man's shoulder. 

"This is the sign of the Curse of the Thirteenth Moon," Caine told him. "It is the bringer of disharmony. This is the source of the darkness." He pushed the object into Peter's hand and stood. "I must go." 

"But--" Peter wasn't given opportunity to follow as the officers responding to his call spilled into the alley at that moment. When he looked again, his father was gone. 

* * * * * * 

Peter scrubbed his hands over his face and leaned back against the flowered walls of the ER. Simon Jones, the stabbing victim, wasn't going to be much help in the identification department. At least not for several hours. The doctors had taken him into emergency surgery. Now, if only Peter could pull himself together enough to find some caffeine, he might make it through the rest of the day. 

He glanced toward the face of his watch and almost chuckled. Four-thirty A.M. This was really beginning to get monotonous. He had less than twenty-four hours to find a killer. Sleep would have to wait. Pushing away from the wall, he headed out toward the waiting room. He rounded a corridor and almost walked into Agent Strong. 

She looked him over disdainfully. Her eyes lit on the front of his shirt and then she licked her lips. With a wink she sauntered on past him, Agent McGruder followed in her wake. He cast a pitying look in Peter's direction but said nothing. Grey stayed with the young detective. 

Peter glanced with dread down at his shirt front to find a very large coffee stain. He closed his eyes in silent prayer that he had imagined that the woman had any designs on him. He decided there and then that a shower and a change of clothes would make him think a lot more clearly. 

Grey was chuckling silently as he watched the emotions play across the young man's face. "Were you able to get anything?" he asked. 

"Nope," Peter shook his head. "He's in surgery. You're not going to go with Strong and McGruder to question the EMTs?" 

Grey shook his head. "Nah. I may have to pass this torch on to you. You ever considered a career with the Federal government? Pay's passable. Lots of travel." 

Peter laughed. "You're kidding, right?" 

"Not at all," Grey assured him. "You've gotten closer than even I did. You even managed to save one of the victims while I was out getting damned coffee, no less. I'm getting too old for this." 

Peter clapped the man on the shoulder. "I think I'm going to go home to grab a shower, change clothes and head back to the precinct." 

"I'm sure that would make you a lot more comfortable," Grey grinned. "In more ways than one." 

"That obvious?" Peter returned the grin. 

Grey shrugged. "Let's just say I know the fear that she instills in the hearts of humankind in general, men in particular." 

When their laughter died away, Grey glanced around the nearly empty lobby. "Damn, I could use a beer." 

Peter chuckled. He knew the feeling. "I'm sure I've got a six pack somewhere in the fridge," he offered. "Why don't you come back to my apartment and grab some downtime while I get changed?" 

"You've just made me an offer I can't refuse," Grey told him. 

* * * * * * 

The man sat quietly, waiting for the time to come. The luminary in the sky was calling to him. The time was almost right. Soon, all things would be in place. He looked into his gloved hands at the remaining medallions. Both bore red spots of blood. But one was ringed in gold. The one who was to bear the medallion of gold would free him from his prison and his life as the monster caught between the balance. 

The cosmos had avenged the deaths of those who died. The survivors would pay. And then there would be peace for the dead and peace for the monster. The darkness of night had haunted him for so long. Only through the releasing could he be freed from the poisonous acquaintance. 

The releaser would either release him, or join him in the darkness. 

* * * * * * 

"Find what you need?" Peter yelled into the living room as he toweled the dampness from his hair. 

"Yeah, thanks!" Grey yelled back amid what sounded to Peter's ears like a recap for some sporting event on television.

Padding toward his dresser, Peter grabbed out clean undergarments as well as a pullover shirt and a pair of jeans. His luck with coffee hadn't been so good lately. He returned the green shirt to the drawer and pulled out one in a chocolate brown. 

Minutes later, he returned the living room. Grey had shut off the television and was staring out of the window. Night still clung to the city, but in just over an hour the moon would give up its dominion. 

"Grey," he called to the man as he seemed lost in thought. 

"Yeah?" the older man glanced briefly in Peter's direction, his gray eyes distant. The man definitely had the correct surname. 

"You okay?" Peter asked. 

Several long moments passed before the other man spoke, and when he did it was very softly. "The woods are lovely dark and deep. But I've got promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep." 

"What's that?" Peter asked. 

"It was a night like this that I lost my family," Grey told him.

"Your family?" Peter questioned, surprised. "What happened?" 

"Oh, it was a freak accident." Grey assured him. "A tour bus turned over. Ice on the road--less than a week after Christmas. There were eleven people on the bus. Eight survived, three died: my wife and two daughters. That was almost eleven years ago and still I miss them. I wonder what they would look like now, what they would think of me." 

He took a deep breath before turning to face Peter, a melancholy smile on his face. "That's a horrible loss for anyone to suffer--to lose your entire family in one blow. But soon it won't matter." 

"Yes it is a horrible loss," Peter agreed. "But I guess that's one more thing we have in common. Sixteen years ago on a dark night, I lost my father. He was all the family that I had. I know the pain of that loss. But my father would say that there is hope on the other side." 

Grey's eyes hardened momentarily. "You were given a second chance, Peter," he said. "You got him back." 

"That didn't make the pain of losing him any less," Peter told him thoughtfully, remembering the conversation that he hadn't been able to finish with his father earlier. So many unanswered questions. And he didn't even want to think about that strange flash that had occurred again. God, he needed to get some sleep. 

"Of course, you're right," Grey was agreeing with him.

"Listen," Peter glanced around the apartment in search of his keys. "I need to make a stop before we head back to the precinct. Do you mind?" 

"Not at all," Grey assured him and gestured toward the kitchen. "Mind if I grab another bottle?" 

"Nah, go ahead," Peter waited while the man reached into his refrigerator for another beer. "Where you staying while you're in town?" he asked. 

"Days Inn. Not exactly one of the perks," Grey said as Peter followed him out of the front door and into the elevator. "But it's definitely a step up from standard billeting." 

"You want me to drop you off?" Peter offered. "In case you want to change or anything. I can come back by after I make my stop." 

"You're going to go see your father?" Grey asked. 

Peter looked at him. "How'd you know that?" 

"Back at the precinct," Grey replied. "You said that you would ask him if he would talk to us today." 

"Oh, right," Peter nodded as the elevator dinged that it had reached the parking lot level. When the doors slid open, he stepped out. "He actually said something strange about one of the medallions," Peter said, glancing around the parking area. "Something abou--"

A sudden explosion in Peter's head cut off all thought and all speech. He saw the ground rushing to meet him, and then he saw nothing else. 

* * * * * * 

Frank Strenlich walked into the precinct wondering when he was ever going to get a life. Another day, another druggie, drunk or serial killer. It all started to run together after a while. 

He moved toward the coffee area and grasping the Pyrex container, turned it sideways. There was absolutely nothing appetizing about the sludge that lined the bottom of the pot. The stuff had probably been there curing all night, what with half the department out in Chinatown looking for this Blue Moon Killer. The only saving grace was that the press had yet to catch wind of the incident. But after Simon Jones woke, and morning hospital staff came in, Frank feared that even that small concession would be out the window. The Mayor was going to go through the roof.

He started slightly as Kermit poked his head out of his office door. 

"Jumpy?" Kermit asked, then jerked his head for Frank to follow him into his lair. 

Frank shoved the coffee pot back into its spot to cure for a while longer. "What is it?" he asked tiredly when he reached Kermit's desk. 

"Bad news," Kermit replied and swung the screen around slightly. "Jason Eugene Grey, profiler in the Blue Moon Killer case." He displayed the image of the man that had been in Frank's office the day before. "The first killing took place in July 1985. A blue moon month." 

"Right." So far Frank followed. 

"Guess what happened three years before in December of 1982." Kermit didn't wait for him to answer, but continued on. "He lost his wife and two daughters in an automobile accident. There were eight survivors. A man who was a known wife abuser and his wife. An engaged couple. A pregnant woman. And a man with his son." 

Kermit called up the image of the killer's announcement in the lower corner of the screen and pointed to each line of poetry. "Hunter and Prey. A woman and a man. A woman and a child. A father and a son. Guess what else happened in December of 1982." 

"A blue moon. . . " Franks voice trailed off. "My God. . . Peter. . . " 

* * * * * * 

"You are ready Kwai Chang Caine?" the Ancient asked as Caine rose from his meditative position. 

"I am," Caine responded. Moving with sure steps, he began to gather his satchel and the few items that he would need. 

"And which path have you chosen?" Lo Si wanted to know. 

"I have chosen all three," was Caine's response. 

"Good," Lo Si's wizened face spread into a grin. "Only through traveling the paths of fear, love and acceptance can you defeat the darkness." 

Caine bowed, and turned to leave the apartment.

* * * * * *

"Detective Caine! Peter!" Strenlich banged at Peter's apartment door, hoping that any second the young detective was going to appear. 

"There's no time for this," Kermit said, looking as if he were ready to break the door down. 

Strenlich inwardly echoed the sentiment. But before he could put the plan to action, he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. He turned to gaze into the face of Peter's father. 

"It is not necessary to damage my son's door," the priest said. With a curious movement of his hands, Caine manipulated the knob. It turned under his hand. He then pushed the door open. 

Strenlich preceded the older man into the dim rooms. He wasn't sure what to make of half the things the Shaolin priest did, figuring that the man must have performed some sleight of hand on the door, having had a key all along. But he knew that Peter believed in him, and father and son did have a knack for getting things done. 

Once inside the apartment, Strenlich looked around the living room, while Kermit headed to the left, in the direction of the master bedroom. Caine entered the kitchen, seeming to know exactly where to go. Strenlich wasn't even surprised when he returned moments later carrying the familiar medallion bearing the Yin & Yang. 

"My son is in great danger," Caine said, his gaze intense. "We must find him." 

Strenlich turned a pleading look in Kermit's direction as the other detective appeared from his seach, but received only a slight negative shake of his head. Turning back to Caine, he flinched under the man's peircing eyes, not sure he wanted to admit to the older man that they didn't have a clue. 

Kermit spoke up. "Unless you can pull some Shaolin trick out of your hat, we're not exactly sure where to look." 

Strenlich's eyes narrowed as Caine seemed to look beyond them, as if seeing something not present in the room. "He is near water. It is a large place, with manicured lawns. Very private. There is a dock, with a boat bearing the words. . . " The Shaolin closed his eyes and tilted his head as if actually reading the name from the vessel itself, "Harmony's Helper."

Kermit's mouth tightened as if Caine's words had hit a nerve. "I know the place. Sounds like a government safe house out on Old Harbour Rd." 

Frank didn't even bother asking the computer geek how he knew about government safe houses. He would never get a straight answer, anyway. He turned back to ask Caine how he had known how to describe the place, but the spot where the priest had stood was empty. Kwai Chang Caine was no where to be seen. 

* * * * * * 

Awareness of a blinding pain in his head was Peter's first conscious thought. The next, fast on its heels was nausea. He promptly rolled and lost three days worth of coffee and doughnuts on what felt like a bed of dirt. 

Purging the contents of his stomach eased the queasiness but did little for the painful throb in his head. With grunted effort, he struggled into a sitting position--difficult with his hands tied tightly behind his back and the unsettling tilt-a-wheel imitation the world had taken on. Drawing his knees up toward his chest, he gingerly rested his head on them and closed his eyes. That seemed to ease the awful spinning somewhat.

"Where the hell am I?" he wondered out loud, attempting to distract himself from the dizziness and the pain. He remembered that someone had hit him in the back of the head just as he was about to walk out of the elevator at his apartment building. His sluggish brain took a moment to supply the image of his attacker.

"Grey. . ." he breathed against his knees, as other pieces began to come together. "I shoulda seen this coming. . . it was all there. . . lost his family. . . eight survivors. He paid Dougie. He was powerful in the law enforcement community. . . God, he talked about his heritage. . . he's Oriental. . . Damnit! I should have seen it. And now he probably wants to make me and Pop his next victims! Well, not if I can help it you bastard!" 

Angry with himself for not putting the clues together earlier, Peter set about looking for a means of escape. First the ropes. He tried to wiggle his bound hands, testing the strength of the knot. It was tight--very tight, but he set to work applying the technique his father had taught him at the temple. He hoped it would work. The last time that he attempted to use it had been when Tan's men had strung him up in that warehouse. His father's words drifted back into his mind. 

"This exercise is for those rare occasions when a knife is not at hand. . . Stretch and loosen. Loosen and stretch. . . " The old trick was working, the ropes were beginning to loosen. 

"Grey old boy, guess you should have stayed at the temple a little longer and learned to tie a real knot," he muttered. The sarcasm didn't make his head feel any better, but it certainly gave him a sense of satisfaction. 

Continuing to work the ropes, he carefully opened his eyes and took in the dimness around him. He clenched his jaw against the wave of dizziness that assaulted him. 

Vague light crept through the low roof of his cramped prison. Peter squinted, straining against the ache behind his eyes, and realized that his location was the underside of a deck. He could still make out the faint smell of sealer still clinging to the wood along with another scent that he couldn't quite place. Setting the thought aside, he continued to follow the faint line of the ground as it sloped up toward what was probably the base of a building, more than likely a house. Sea sounds and smells also added to the curious mix of textures that he could sense. 

He looked around for evidence that others had been chained in this little prison aside from himself, and found none. He wondered where the others were, and if they were still alive. Grey had said that they wouldn't be killed until the moon was full. But then, Grey had also pretended to be his friend and had probably killed his own partner. 

Peter struggled several more moments with the rope before it slipped completely away from his hands. Squeezing his fists, he steeled himself and then moved toward the door that had been cut into the wood of the deck. It was of course, locked. "Figures," he mumbled.

Turning, he pressed his back against the flimsy door and leaned with all of his strength. The wood splintered with an explosive crack, sending Peter tumbling out into the Sun along with the door. He landed hard on his back, reawakening the injury at the back of his head. Renewed pain nearly took him under again.

Struggling against the darkness and queasiness, he rolled to his knees. He had to move. He didn't want to be anywhere around when the lunatic discovered that his prisoner was missing. 

Feeling something warm and wet trickling down the back of his neck, Peter lifted a hand to the spot. It came back covered in red. He also felt the stiffness of old blood along the back of his damp shirt. A lot of old blood. "This is not good," he murmured to himself, cleaning his bloody hand on the front of his already ruined shirt. 

Then, glancing up at the Sun, he started to move slowly down a decline away from the house proper. He figured it to be about 8 or 9 in the morning. Someone from the precinct should have started wondering where he was by now. 

As he continued around the sloping hill, he saw that the deck continued around to a raised patio that had been built at house level. Long, ivy covered stilts rose up out of the ground to support the structure. The grassy slope continued for a distance beyond the raised patio and grew right up to the edge of a planked dock where a white boat bearing the name _Harmony's Helper_ was docked. He wondered if there was a radio onboard. 

Deciding that attempting to call for help from the boat was his best bet, Peter set off for the the dock. As he reached the first set of stilts, he paused, checking cautiously for any sign of movement from the boat. Finding none, he took a step to his right and immediately fell face forward into something narrow and half-buried in the ground. The vines had masked its presence. 

"Oh expert job, Detective Caine," he muttered softly as he levered himself to his knees. "Why not just announce you're out here." Then pushing back on his haunches, he almost lost his breath as he realized his was sitting in a coffin. 

"Jeez!" he scrambled out in horror, ending up on his backside, sitting amidst the thick covering of ivy. As he began to take in the odd tangle of green vines, he noticed irregularities. He fingered it, and found it odd to the touch, almost as if some of it was real and some of it wasn't. He didn't know what the hell it was, but he traced it and found that it wound a thick path up to the coffin in which he had fallen. The wooden box had been lowered into shallowly dug ground.

He continued to track the path of the ivy and found another buried coffin. It too was empty. "Grey, you are one sick puppy," he murmured as he continued to follow the trail of the vines. His heart jumped when he found the third coffin. He could see the pale face of a child through the covering of vines. 

Tearing the greenery away, Peter got a good look at what appeared to be a boy of about ten years old. The child's hands, secured with twine, were crossed over his damp clothing, and his skin was unnaturally pale. Peter caught a stronger whiff of the same scent that had followed him from the underground prison. It was then that he realized that it was lighter fluid. 

Reaching frantically for the boy's carotid pulse, he sagged with relief as its steady beat echoed against his fingertips. He decided that the child was probably drugged and suffering from exposure. Continuing along the trail of the vines, Peter found the other three victims. All were in a similar state as the boy. Peter couldn't leave them there, looking as if they were waiting for death to come knocking at their doors, even though he knew that help would be on the way soon. It just didn't feel right. Instead, he expended large amounts of his precious energy to drag them all from the coffins, and left them lying on the grassy hill that ran around the house--out of sight of the patio above, but in a patch of warmth from the sun. 

By the time he completed his self-appointed task, gray spots were beginning to appear in his vision and renewed nausea threatened. With effort, he crawled to the water's edge and splashed the coolness on his face and neck, wincing as a little of the fluid spilled into the gash at the back of his head. 

Feeling a little less bleary, he turned to head on toward the boat. The sound of voices drifting from above stopped him, sending him scurrying back toward the stilts. Psychopathic serial killers didn't have accomplices did they? But then a familiar tone and cadence assaulted his senses. He turned back toward the house. 

* * * * * * 

"Kwai Chang Caine. I knew you would come." 

Caine turned at the sound of the voice that greeted him. He stared across the wide patio toward a tall man with gray eyes bearing a weapon with which Caine was unfamiliar. The long narrow rod with trigger mechanism, attached to a large pack that was strapped to the man's back seemed more ominous than a simple gun. 

"Do you know who I am?" the gray-eyed man continued, hefting the weapon so that he held it more securely. 

"You are one who is lost in darkness," Caine told him, glancing around to get a feel for his surroundings. "A darkness of your own making." 

"No," the man shook his head. "Not my making! I didn't make this darkness. The cosmos did. The universe itself. It set the terms of my life. It put me in this perpetual night. It even called me Grey. Trapped forever between the light and the dark." 

"Only you can make the trap from which you cannot be freed," Caine replied.

"I don't believe that," Grey responded. "But that's not why I called you here. Don't you want to know why I do it?" 

"I already know why," Caine told him. 

The man laughed shortly and shook his head. "Yes, of course you do. I almost forgot that I was talking to a," he waved expansively with one arm, "Shaolin priest there for a second." The man's tone turned serious. 

"I chose you," Grey said, "because Fate dictated it. There I was, sitting in my office, crushed because of some horrible news from my doctor. I'm going to -die-? Of some -disease-? Me?! But then, what should happen? A report comes across my desk about a Shaolin priest who helped catch a drug dealer. You even spoke the Tsang Tiang dialect. I began to see what the cosmos was trying to tell me. Only a Shaolin priest is honorable enough to release another. I am a priest to the night. And you, Shaolin, are going to release me." 

When Caine did not respond, Grey continued. "First I kill them -- my final act," he nodded toward the edge of the raised patio. "And then I kill Peter. With him gone, you may as well be dead. And then, I'll let you kill me. Perfect symmetry for the thirteenth moon, wouldn't you say? I go out in a blaze of glory. You save the world." 

"I will not allow you to do this thing," Caine said. "You will harm no more innocent ones." 

"It's too late!" the man shot back. "The innocent ones were harmed eleven years ago when my wife and kids died on that bus! Those eight people who survived had no right to live! No right when all of mine perished!" 

"And so you seek to sacrifice the life of those eight every time the curse of the thirteenth moon recycles itself? This cannot bring back the life of those that you have lost. This cannot redeem your honor." 

"Oh honor, schmonor! It makes me feel better!" The man's anger was twisted by his sudden insane laughter. "I know I can't bring them back! I'm not crazy, I'm just hopelessly trapped in between." 

"There can almost always be hope," Caine replied. 

"Even for one so acquainted with night?" 

Caine turned his head slightly in confusion. He suddenly felt that Peter was near. But his son's chi was very weak, and his mind was fractured. The vague sensations were all that he could sense.

Grey continued to speak. "I am like the moon," he said. "I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain--and back in rain. I have out walked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. . . " 

"Robert Frost," Caine responded. 

Grey bowed his head slightly. 

"Night gives way to day," Caine reminded the man. "You can choose to leave the night." He stretched himself further, searching for his son. 

"No," the man sighed. He then shook his head. "It's too late for me. I have to finish this. You have to help me." 

"I will not help you destroy yourself and others," Caine told him. "Tell me where my son is." 

Grey shook his head sadly and grasped his weapon more firmly. "If you cannot help me, then you will die first! And then Peter will follow and then more and more and more--!" He never finished his sentence, as at that moment, Peter burst from around the corner of the house.

The man turned in a quick motion and caught Peter in the side with the odd weapon he carried, sending the young man staggering toward his father. 

"No!" Caine yelled as Grey simultaneously raised his weapon and Caine recognized the scent of lighter fluid drenching his son's clothing. Spinning, Caine landed a powerful kick against Peter's chest to knock him clear of the weapon. He watched as his son flew backward, as if in slow motion, pain and disbelief echoing across his features as he crashed into the wooden patio railing. The railing gave just as arching flames leapt from Grey's weapon and Peter began to tumble into nothingness. But Caine knew that it wasn't enough. The flames would still reach his son. 

Moving with chi-enchanced speed, Caine threw himself between Peter and the fire. The red-hot flames licked viciously at his hands and arms before he could deflect the agony. With draining effort, he managed to send the flames back toward their origin. 

The trigger end of the weapon fell from Grey's grasp and clattered to the deck as some of the flames began to flicker at his shirt front. Ignoring the fire, he drew a large caliber gun from his waistband and aimed.

Caine prepared himself. 

Before Grey could pull the trigger, a shot rang out from the opposite direction. His right leg went out from beneath him as a circle of blood began to blossom over his thigh. Pushing himself up from the ground, he turned deliberately toward a vine-covered beam at the opposite end of the patio and pulled the trigger. Caine watched in horror as a flare erupted from the gun, hitting the vine which burst into flame. The fire rushed in all directions along the vine, moving along the side of the house, while simultaneously working its way along what remained of the banister and down out of sight. 

Another shot rang through the air, followed by running footsteps. The madman's body jerked with the force of the blast, and then his eyes closed as he fell lifelessly to the ground. 

"He's down!" Caine heard a female voice yell as he turned toward the group that was approaching from the side of the house. A small woman, her gun still trained on the fallen man, was accompanied by another stranger, as well as the two officers from Peter's precinct: Chief of Detectives Frank Strenlich, and Kermit Griffin. 

Caine ran past them all and down the slope along the outside of the wooden deck. The eerie remembrance of the dream wherein Peter lay pale and lifeless in an open fiery grave brought fear and panic back two fold. He had to find his son. 

As he ran around the hillside toward the place where Peter had fallen, the sight of four bodies halted his progress. Even as he paused to check the first victim, a young boy, his attention was drawn away by the sound of struggling breaths and a hoarse cough. He turned, and the sight beyond the bodies filled him with dread. 

Through a haze of black smoke, he saw Peter, on his knees among a thick growth of some sort of vine. All around the young man flames blazed, along the the stilted patio supports and across the ground. As Caine moved forward, trying to find a path through the fire, he saw Peter attempt to move to his feet, but another wracking cough shook the young man's body and he stumbled back to the ground, an arm wrapped about his midsection. Caine winced as he felt the pain that the spasm caused his son. 

Finally reaching Peter, Caine shuddered as he realized that the only immediate area of safety was an empty wooden coffin at his son's side, away from the flames that bore down on him like hungry dragons. In a quick move, he rolled him into the box, and turned toward the burning ivy. 

As he struggled to divert the path of the oncoming flames, Caine glanced back toward the wooden coffin, calling to the pale young man. "Peter," his voice sounded rough and abused. "You must move. The fire. . . " The strong smell of smoke was still heavy around the coffin, and other fiery vines ran dangerously near. 

Caine was forced to reach more deeply into his pool of strength to control the fire. He sensed that the living ivy was mingled with something else not living that fed the blaze to greater intensity. 

Winning his battle with the encrouching flames, Caine turned back toward the coffin just as Peter made a half-conscious effort to push himself upward and out of the box. A moan joined the coughing. Ignoring the searing pain in his own hands, Caine reached into the coffin and gathered his son to pull him out. As he carried him up the sloping hill to where the air was clearer, he felt the stickiness on his fingers where the blood had seeped through the young man's clothing.  


Settling his son on the warm grass, Caine rolled him slightly forward so that he could determine the extent of his wounds. The hair at the back of his head was matted with both old and new blood. Caine found another wound at his lower back. The once brown material of Peter's shirt was turned an unsettling burgandy due to the quantity of blood loss. Caine also felt the additional disharmony of fractured ribs. 

As he very gently rolled his son back, he noticed that the young man's coughing spasms were beginning to subside, but a trembling took its place. 

"C-c-cold," Peter struggled to say through gasping breaths. 

"Do not try to talk, my son," Caine encouraged, rubbing his hands together, gathering his chi strength. As he placed his hands at Peter's shoulders, the warmth flowed from him into Peter's chilled body, staving off the effects of shock. But he was concerned about the blood that still flowed too freely from his son's wounds, and the breaths that came too quickly. 

"Pop. . ." 

"Peter," Caine urged, sensing his son's unrest. "You must be calm." 

"Wait. . . wha. . ." The young man tried again, his voice a gasping whisper, but a fit of coughing overcame him. He grimaced. "I gotta. . ." 

"Peter, you must listen," Caine said, touching the sides of his son's face, looking into his eyes, willing the young man to be still. "Listen to the sound of my voice." He sensed the moment when Peter reluctantly did as he asked. "Good," he encouraged. "Listen." 

"You and I are together," Caine said slowly, allowing his peace and his vision to extend across the tenuous link that he had initiated with his son. "The warmth of the Sun is shining upon us. We are in my secret place. You are a baby, in my arms. Your mother is by the lake. . ." 

Caine was relieved to see a shadow of a smile cross Peter's lips, before the young man's eyes drooped shut and he surrendered to the peace of the dream. With a shuddering sigh, his breathing fell into an even rhythm, and his body relaxed against the grass. Gently resting a hand over his son's heart, Caine glanced in the direction of the approaching emergency medical technicians. Sending his son the last of his healing strength, he settled back on the grass and surrendered to his exertions, allowing the dream to take him as well. 

* * * * * * 

"Pop? You here?" Peter stepped through the doorway into his father's apartment. Continuing through the rooms, he found the older man struggling with some awful smelling brew over the sink. 

"Here. Pop, let me do that," he moved gingerly forward in deference to his healing body. The doctor had released him a day earlier, and he had no intention of ending up back on the medical ward. Three days was definitely long enough. He settled the cactus he was carrying on the counter and rolled up his sleeves. 

"Did you bring this for me?" Caine asked, gesturing toward the prickly plant. 

"Uh, yeah. Our tax dollars at work. It was a gift from Special Agent Inez Strong. She said it was a kind of a get well and thank you to the both of us." Peter decided it was best not to go into detail about the raunchy message that had been attached. 

"Ah," was all his father said as he extended his hands over the sink to allow Peter to ladle the fluid over the bandages. 

"Are you supposed to be getting these wet?" Peter asked as he continued to bath the bandaged area. His father wasn't exactly an advocate of modern medicine. But then, his own remedies did seem to work better. Peter didn't mind that his father only answered the question with a look. 

"You know, Pop, I've been thinking. Did you know that Grey was going to go after me? After us?" 

"No." Caine shook his head. 

"Well then, why did you come and warn me that night on the stakeout? Why did you tell me to stay away from you?" 

Caine shrugged. "I was struggling with the paths of fear, love and acceptance. I did not find any one of them acceptable. Only by traveling them all was my true path made clear." 

Peter looked at his father. How in the world was a guy supposed to take that? "Well speaking of paths, and roads less traveled: Grey said that he studied at the temple, and that he used that training to go into law enforcement. It seemed to have worked for him, at least until he started doing the Jeckyl and Hyde thing every blue moon. Could all of the bad things he saw at work have changed him somehow?" 

His father shrugged and began to slowly peel away the bandages. "He was very troubled. He became consumed with the darkness that developed within his soul. The great losses that he suffered warped him. He was not able to cope." 

Peter nodded as he held off on the funky herbal bath and dipped his hands into the brownish liquid to help his father remove the remaining bits of the bandages from his hands. 

"Do you think that something like that could happen to either of us?" Peter asked. He didn't know if he could cope if he lost his father again. 

Caine looked up into Peter's eyes. "Love, while a risk to the soul, also strengthens and protects. Hatred and rage are always poisons that can weaken even the strongest battlement. You are not a man given to hate, my son. Your capacity for love serves you well and will continue to make you strong."

Peter grinned. "Should I take that as a 'no'?" 

Caine reached up and touched his son's cheek and smiled. 

Peter returned the smile, then realized that his father was dripping the smelly concoction all over his face. 

Caine pulled back his surprisingly well-healed hand and prepared to deliver a slap to push the lesson in. 

"Aw, Pop!" Peter did not manage to duck away in time. 

--

the end.

--

EndNotes/Credits: 

*The Poems quoted by Grey are, in order of appearance, "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" and "Acquainted With The Night" by Robert Frost. If you are a Frost fan, you might have caught a few other instances. (Not to mention you're in the company of the author as well as this story's baddie du jour!) Try www.robertfrost.org for information and poetry.

*The Thirteenth Moon: What the heck is it? 

The thirteenth moon is essentially a blue moon. The reader's digest version is that there are generally 12 full moons in a year -- 3 in a season and 1 in a month. When there are thirteen full moons in a year, the thirteenth moon is blue. Same with the season, the fourth full moon is considered blue. The second full moon in a month is considered blue. A blue moon is considered unlucky in some cultures -- and not just cause it screws up the astrological math. 

Now, depending on who you ask, *more than likely*, one of those methods is the correct way of reckoning a blue moon. But all of them don't agree, of course. :) For ex: There were two blue moons in 1999, reckoning by the month (and no, there were not 14 full moons in 1999 - there was no full moon at all in February but January & March were blue moon months). Reckoning by the season, there was only one blue moon in 1999. Reckoning by the year, there was also only one. 

I, of course, fudged. For the purposes of this story, I reckoned by the month -- instead of the Oriental method -- to avoid confusion. There is no literal curse of the 13th moon - at least not one that I'm aware of. This was all in Grey's demented mind. Hope this makes sense to everyone. End science lesson. I should say that I've only scratched the surface on this topic. For more clarifying info, hit any search engine and type in "Blue Moon" and be prepared to be amazed. 

* Blue Moon information and assorted Moon facts taken from: http://www.ameritech.net/users/paulcarlisle/MoonCalendar.html ( a blue moon java calendar which allows one to punch in a month and year to determine the phases of the moon for that particular month). Any errors? Blame it on the Java! 

*Also used was: http://webexhibits.com/calendars/timeline.html Very cool (and mind boggling) time/moon/astronomical facts can be found here. 

*And because I couldn't resist, and since I've borrowed its title, I've included Acquainted With The Night by Robert Frost at the end of this file. I hope that you've enjoyed the journey. 

__

Acquainted With The Night

I have been one acquainted with the night. 

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain. 

I have out walked the furthest city light. 

I have looked down the saddest city lane. 

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. 

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street, 

But not to call me back or say good-bye; 

And further still at an unearthly height, 

O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 

I have been one acquainted with the night. 

--Robert Frost

the end

   [1]: mailto:jackeec@earthling.net



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